


take it in stride (moments and moments)

by Rayellah



Category: Death Note
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-14 15:51:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4570380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rayellah/pseuds/Rayellah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>L and Light, roles reversed, try to learn how to <i>be</i>, while attempting to navigate the peculiarities of being human.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a reversal AU where L is a serial killer and Light is a gifted university student on his way to becoming an asset to the police. There is no Kira Task Force. There are no notebooks. There are only people.

Light heard about the serial killer through the news, initially. It was his first month away from home, in his own apartment. It wasn't exactly a pleasant beginning – finally Light had become independent, was a university student and rising star on his way to a promising carreer and oh, what's that, a reminder of why he was doing this at all and, simultaneously, a reminder that the world is harsh and cruel and dangerous. _The world eats people alive,_ _Yagami Light, here, have another reminder. Free of charge._

Light took that reminder and tucked it away under his tongue for later.

It wasn't as though he could have done anything else. He wasn't looking to become a detective because the benefits looked oh so promising. If he wanted to make money quick he'd have looked toward business or engineering. No, Light wanted to make a difference.

So he counted that serial killer story – the latest and therefore the most interesting to the media – as yet another reason to keep pushing forward, ate his breakfast, pulled on his shoes, grabbed his bag, and walked to campus. University-work-homework-sleep. Find time for meals in between. Read for liesure whenever he can afford to. And on and on.

It was his life, and he was proud of it. He worked for it. He had earned it.

Still, the messy corpse on the news stuck with him. Arsenic poisoning. Now that would be an unpleasant a way to go. Still, it's discreet enough. Potentially difficult to track. Getting it into something the victim would consume might prove difficult, but clearly this killer was clever.

(Light could probably do it better.)

Despite these thoughts, by the time Light got to campus, his mind had wandered off toward – something else. Some equally unnecessary thought. As always, he was right on time as he stepped into the classroom, not a minute early or late. Tardiness for the sake of it would be unforgivable but being too early would lead to boredom.

(His mother used to nod along when he told her how bored he got in class, proud that her boy was so gifted and annoyed on his behalf that he wasn't being challenged, his mother—)

Anyway, his classes were now enough to keep his interest, more or less, and he knew they had a more practical application.

By the time his first class had finished, his notebook filled with quick but careful notes the day's lecture, he had forgotten all about the killer on the news.

Of course, there are some things that are harder to forget about, and Light remembered that fact with all the sudden anxiety that accompanies a knife to the throat on a deserted side-street.

Wait.

No.

Let's rewind. Wednesday started in much the same way Tuesday did with breakfast, shoes, bag. It ended more or less the same as well, with Light walking home. It was late, but not late-late, some nasty voice in Light's head was snarling at the co-worker who had come in late, prevented Light from leaving in time, but Light had always been good at ignoring that voice in favour of false smiles and cheerful words and anyway, he was out of there.

It was chilly out, the sort of weather that reminded him that it was, in fact, autumn, and Light wrapped his jacket more tightly around himself and quickened his pace.

Home was not far. But he'd prefer not to be out late at night in the cold. He pulled his jacket tightly around himself, turned left and—

And there was a knife, pressed up against his throat, right where his neck and jaw met but not quite touching. A low voice spoke up and Light had to stop himself from turning to look, “Hand over your wallet and anything else you have on you.” The man's voice sounded desperate. Or maybe eager. Something like that, but Light couldn't pinpoint what it was from that one sentence alone, especially considering he couldn't see the man's face. Desperate-or-something.

This knowledge did not, however, prevent Light from stopping right in his tracks and slowly reaching for his wallet. No matter what the robber's intentions, he didn't want to risk getting his throat slit not two blocks from his apartment complex without a very good reason. He was thinking about the ID cards in his wallet and how much of a pain it would be to replace them. “I'm going to take out the cash I have and hand it to you. I'll do it slowly so you can see I don't have a weapon.”

He hoped that sounding reasonable would be enough.

To his surprise, the knife disappeared, though first it nicked his throat and then it... clattered to the ground? Light paused, spun around, saw the man drop to the ground with a loud thump. A car passed by but did not stop. There was blood on the ground, pooling beneath the man's head. Light nearly collapsed but stopped himself.

His would-be assailant was still breathing, chest rising and falling despite the injury he'd taken to the head. That was probably for the best. Light wondered if he should call an ambulance and claim he'd just happened across the unconscious stranger. Something to decide later. There were more pressing matters afoot, namely his... saviour? Not the word Light would choose but he couldn't think of one that would be more apt.

Light looked into the eyes of a man in nondescript clothing, holding what appeared to be a piece of metal piping. A mop of dark, messy hair allowed the streetlamp to cast much of his face into shadow. It seemed he was only a little shorter than Light, but the way he was tucked in on himself increased their height difference further. He was looking at Light with unhidden curiosity, something in his eyes hinting at wild but restrained intelligence despite his raggedy appearance.

“I hope he didn't hurt you,” he said, and his tone of voice made him sound rather bored. Like he couldn't decide how much he cared and opted for sounding like he cared not at all. Light took a second to wonder at his accent. His pronunciation was without error but it was clear he wasn't from Japan originally.

Light nodded only a fraction of a second too late for his pause to seem natural. “Yes. I mean no. I mean I'm all right. Thank you for— No,” he began, stopping abruptly when he realised he was about to thank a man for hitting someone over the head with a bit of pipe. The stranger shifted his weight from foot to foot. Light's fight-or-flight instinct was screaming at him to do... to do something. He didn't know. He didn't know what it wanted from him.

“You are bleeding a little, but the knife clearly missed the vital parts of your throat considering you're still capable of speech and your breathing seems unimpaired. A superficial cut.”

“Yes,” Light replied. He considered that he might have been in shock. He wasn't normally so laconic, but shock will do that to a lot of people. He supposed it was better than the nervous-chatter instinct that some were cursed with.

The stranger raised an eyebrow.

“I can't seem to figure out how to react,” Light elaborated, and was surprised at how calm his voice sounded. This wasn't a situation he knew how to deal with. He really just wanted to get home, get home, but the other man was giving him a curious look. “I might be in shock.”

“You're safe now,” the man said, and the _strangeness_ of that phrase made Light pause. “Do you live nearby?”

It was likely an offer to escort Light to his home, and for one idiotic moment he considered asking him to, if only because two men walking down a street would provide more of a deterrent than one walking alone ever would. “Yes. Just up the street.”

“Would you like me to accompany you?”

Light felt he should say no, and in fact his rational mind was demanding he do just that, and anyway, he knew that his odds of attracting two muggers on the same well-lit two-block stretch were almost zero, but his argument died on his lips as he said something that might have been, “Okay.”

“What's your name?”

“You just knocked a man unconscious with a blunt object and you really think I'll tell you my name?” Light scoffed, as if it should be obvious that while where he lived was apparently something he'd declare, _his name_ was too far. The man seemed to find it amusing, somehow. He didn't laugh but Light could see the flicker of a smile on his face.

“You've told me where you live, but your name is a secret?”

Light knew it was stupid, but he nodded. His apartment complex housed enough people that he would be difficult to follow without his tail being noticed. Sharing his name, however, felt like crossing a line that he wasn't ready to cross with a stranger willing to beat a man over the head, mugger or not. If Light put a name to himself, that would make this whole thing much more personal than he ever wanted an interaction with someone like that to be. The shock had worn off, but it was not lost on Light that he was allowing an absolute stranger with at least some tendency toward violence to walk him home.

“You can call me L,” said – L. Said L.

Light nodded, and neither of them said anything more until they reached the apartment complex. “So. This is where I live,” Light said, and it sounded awkward to his ears but he couldn't think of anything more situationally-appropriate to say. What _does_ one say in such a situation, anyway? He wondered if his parents would know, not that he would be sharing this encounter with his father.

“Good night,” L told him, expression something almost like a smile. “And be careful on your own at night. I can't imagine I'll always be there to save you if something like this happens again.”

Light considered saying something in reply, but L had already turned, walking away down the street, swallowed up by the night. Light watched until he could no longer see him under the street lamps, until L turned a corner at the end of the block and vanished completely.


	2. Chapter 2

Light awoke the next morning with a headache building in his temples and a feeling of certainty regarding the previous night. Namely, that he was _certain_ he had dreamt the whole thing. Pulling himself out of bed and moving toward his small kitchen, Light felt, with surety, that chance encounters, muggings under the inconsistent glow of streetlamps, being walked home by unusual strangers with unfamiliar accents... that these were all the sort of things that happened to other people, and not even all at once.

Or maybe he just _wanted_ to believe that these things happened to other people, to ignore the scabbed-over cut on his neck and residual shaking of his hands.

Because those things meant that he hadn't dreamt it. Meant that it was real.

More real than Light knew how to deal with. For all his preparations for _being_ a police detective, he had put so little thought into how achingly, sickeningly _real_ the world around him actually was.

 _His_ world, his world that he had built for himself, out of the brick-and-mortar of study-work-study, felt flat by comparison, like the painted images used as the backdrops for plays.

And if Light spent the entirety of his walk to campus shooting glances over his shoulder, zoned out in class out of habit once he started stealing glances out the window, _well_ , that was Light's business. And not anybody else's at all. And if there was nothing to see over his shoulder on the way to class, nor out the window to the classroom, nor on the walk to work, nor at work, nor on the walk home... that was  _Light's_ business and only Light's business. No one else's business. Just. Don't think too hard about it.

Light couldn’t _stop_ thinking about it, though, _kept_ thinking about it, looking over his shoulder and out windows because that event that had occurred on that one Wednesday night felt far more real than anything in Light's life had any right to.

So he kept thinking about it. Pondering it. Contemplating it. It wasn't as though he had much else to do. Study-work-study. Make meals, eat them alone, smile whenever someone looked at him.

It became part of his daily routine starting Thursday. He slipped _think about it_ in between commutes and classes, crammed it in next to meals, made it fit where there was space and – maybe rewrote it a little. In his head. Made himself braver, or snappier, or cleverer. Made himself deserving of rescue from the knife. It felt pathetic, but it was in his head, so that made it all right. More or less.

Probably.

Oh well.

He had nothing else to do with it.

In the end, of course, it didn't matter what he did with it, it was just the memory of an event, only somewhat more significant than any other event in Light's life because it was _unusual_ and _real_ and he _kept dwelling on it._  And it was a one-time event, circumstantial, not the kind of thing that would repeat itself. Or so he preferred to think. Preferred, of course, because sometimes he'd think about meeting L again anyway. It was the following Tuesday and Light was leaving campus late, had stayed late to study, when at last he did meet L again.

So. It went like this: Light was. Leaving campus and the sun was going down but had not yet set. He wanted to be home _before_ the sun had set completely because he had _learnt his lesson, thankyouverymuch_ , was not planning on drawing attention from someone who saw 'well-dressed' and thought 'easy target' again. The event had shaken him, he was big enough to admit that, and the cut on his neck still hadn't healed up all the way, still throbbed when he thought about it, didn't want him to draw attention from another man with another knife and Light _knew_ there were worse things than muggers out there, a newspaper headline just that morning had declared that another body had been found, that somewhere out there, there was a serial killer. Oh, back alleys. Oh, murder. Oh, wonder-if-anyone-mourned-them. And Light saw, out of the corner of his eye, a shock of dark hair and felt some distant echo of relief as he saw – L again.

He _shouldn't_ have felt relief. He knew that. Knew there was nothing to feel relief _over_. Knew he had seen that very man bash in someone's head just last Wednesday.

L had been waiting just off-campus, on the pavement, looking rather bored, as if he had been waiting for Light and Light had kept him waiting. Like he had come to see Light and Light had been rude and not seen him or... or maybe Light was reading too far into that.

“Hello again,” L said, and Light didn't know how to respond.

The words _how did you know I was here_ lingered on the tip of his tongue but he couldn't seem to figure out how to push them over the edge.

“L,” he said at last.

“I assume you're wondering how I knew you would be here,” L said, causing Light's eyes to widen rather involuntarily. “You looked to be of university age and To-Oh was within walking distance. I assumed that if you were in university, you would choose to live near to where you study, or within a certain radius. Nobody wants to commute more than half an hour every day if they can avoid it. It isn't always avoidable but I thought I would try my luck here first.”

Light wondered if he looked as stunned as he felt. He wasn't sure how he was supposed to feel beyond that. Beyond 'stunned.' Was there anything past that? Should he be frightened? He wasn't frightened. He felt that if L wished to do him harm, he would have done so. Probably.

“It's customary for a conversation to be two-sided,” L said rather pointedly, as if Light were the one acting strangely here. _Light_ had not tracked anyone down for no good reason. _He_ was not the strange one here, he felt.

Still, he had to say something, L was right, he'd let the silence stretch on for too long. He took a moment to look L over. He was wearing the same outfit Light had seen him in last time. Light wondered if it was a coincidence, if L had a lot of similar-looking clothes, or if he only had the one outfit. Did it really matter? He brushed that thought off, irritated with himself for wondering.

“It's good to see you again,” Light finally said.

“Yes,” L replied, looking Light over with apparent scrutiny. He brought his thumb up to his lips as if he were going to bite the nail, but didn't. What unusual body language. Light couldn't read anything in those mannerisms. For some reason this fact irritated him to no end.

“I haven't seen you since last Wednesday,” L continued, looked, for a moment, like he wanted to say more, but if there _was_ more, he was saving it. He didn't appear bothered by the fact that he had not seen Light since their first and only other meeting but then, why would he? It wasn't as though they were friends. They didn't even _know_ one another. Still, the words themselves felt almost like an accusation _or_ , rather, they seemed to request an explanation. Light felt a sudden urge to prove himself, prove _something_.

“I was working late last Wednesday, but that was an unusual circumstance,” he explained. His words felt too fast, or not enough, or - or - _or_. He didn't know. His words felt like they were tripping over one another on their way out of Light's mouth, fighting for the chance to slip and fall from his lips and clatter to the ground. “I'm usually back at my apartment before the sun goes down. Thank you for–” he tried, but that was no good. Those words didn't fit, but then L filled the space left by the tail end of that sentence as he inclined his head in the direction of Light's apartment building.

“It's dangerous to be out this late on your own,” L said, and his eyes darting toward and then away from Light's, like a moth considering whether the _illumination_ was worth it. “I can walk with you again, if you wouldn't mind.”

“I wouldn't,” Light said, voice soft. There was a certain gravity to L's words that Light couldn't figure out how to simply disregard. A smile made its way across L's face, a strange smile, one that looked like it didn't actually fit there, like it was part of a mask Light wasn't sure L was actually wearing. L took the lead, down the pavement, toward Light's apartment building.

It wasn't a long walk, and Light wasn't sure what to talk about, which conversation topics to bring up. This wasn't a problem he usually had, so often excelling at small talk even when those he spoke to bored him to the point where he wondered how they had made it as far in life as they had. But this was different: what did one say to a person one barely knew, and met under very unusual circumstances?

Light thought about himself, _about_ Light, about who he was and the fact that he was _reasonably_ certain that L still didn't know anything about him other than where he lived and attended class. When enough time had passed for Light to find some sort of nerve in this unfamiliar situation, he said, “I'm new to this area.”

“New,” L repeated, not like a question and not like a conformation, more like a... statement. It was strange. Then he added, with the sort of tone one might use over an awkward first date in a restaurant neither party particularly cared for, “I'm also new.”

L's eyes were darting every which way as he spoke, and Light could practically see him... doing _something_. Taking in every detail of every single person, location, or object that they passed. Categorising them, maybe? His eyes would flicker over each thing, analyse it, assign it a place and then move on, not returning. Car, traffic light, trendy clothing store, woman with bag, car, car, closed supermarket... and so on. Light couldn't tear his own eyes away from L, one hand clutching his satchel so tightly it was starting to ache, but he couldn't seem to relax. Then L spoke again. “We're both strangers, to the area.”

For some reason that made Light feel exposed, put on display. Just a little. The way something peculiar sticks out just enough to broadcast to the world that it couldn't find a place to belong. Perhaps it was because he was walking next to L, who Light imagined gave off that sort of impression no matter where he went.

“You seem to know your way around well enough,” Light said. “And you're brave enough to walk alone at night.”

“I have a good sense of direction, and as for – _brave_ ,” L murmured, with a certain kind of underlying ache in his voice, “I'm not. Not really.”

By that point, they'd reached Light's apartment complex. Light puts his back to the familiar building, turned to look L in the eyes, said, “You did save my life.”

L looked away, and the corners of his mouth twitched upward, like he was on the verge of laughing at some joke he'd remembered, but that Light wouldn't understand. As if there was something funny about the idea of L saving a life. He didn't explain the joke, just allowed his mouth to return to the intense but unreadable expression he usually wore. “I hope you like this neighbourhood.”

Light didn't know which lie-of-omission to tell, so he didn't tell one. Instead, he kept his gaze focused on L and in a tone of voice that hinted at a challenge he told him, “I hope you do, too.”

L hummed, as if considering something. “Goodnight,” he said. Then he turned and walked and walked and walked until where he had walked to was _away_.

Light let himself into the building, then, moments later, his apartment. He smiled to himself. He wasn't sure how long L had been playing that game with him, but he had caught on by the end of their second encounter, at the very least. He didn't know what sort of game L thought he was playing, but Light was not overly fond of losing.


	3. Chapter 3

It had become, somehow, a routine of sorts. Light began meeting L after class, or after work, or while walking to the supermarket. L didn't seem to be _following_ him, Light figured, more... L seemed to have decided to spend more time around where he assumed Light would be to increase their chances of running into one another. Light didn't really know what to do with that.

He found, strangely, that he didn't mind.

So there was that.

Light still didn't know, entirely, what to _think_ of L, but he had (they had) a routine of sorts. Still, L only ever walked him to his building, and Light lived close to both the campus and his part-time job and so the times he spent with L, walks home, were not long and there were certain subjects Light avoided with everything he was. Like anything _about_ who he was, like anything about who raised him. L seemed perfectly content to avoid talk of family – or himself for that matter, really, which is why it occurred to Light a fortnight after their initial meeting that he knew very little about him.

The things he did know were strange, like a collection of keepsakes held in the hands of a scrapbooker, near-insignificant individually but someone with time could assemble them into a picture, or something like. Each thing he knew about L was like a pressed flower or a piece of a photograph and Light had no idea how to assemble something like that.

Here is what he knew: L's favourite season was autumn; he liked early spring as well. L enjoyed strawberries on cake and green tea ice cream. He took his coffee with sugar but no milk. Light didn't know how much sugar. Light didn't know where L lived, if he lived anywhere – L was always wearing the same white shirt and L never looked any more or less hungry, more or less clean, more or less well-rested any time Light saw him. Light knew very little.

He didn't even know if they were friends.

 _Could_ they be friends? Light had to wonder. He had to. He'd _had_ friends before, of course, knew what the process was like most of the time but with L he was... uncertain. The normal rules didn't seem to apply. Perhaps L didn't know them. Perhaps he did but did not care. There's another thing Light knew: L was not overly fond of rules.

So, were they friends? Light didn't know, he was sure that they way they met and their odd dynamic were unusual, that nobody _met_ that way and certainly nobody stayed in contact with anything they met that way.  Were he in his right mind, Light thought, he would _not_ continue speaking to someone he'd seen bash someone over the head with a pipe. He wondered, idly, if he wasn't losing his grip on reality after all. Still, despite his doubts, Light walked with L, a few minutes every day. Short walks. And they spoke.

So, here it was. A Monday evening. They'd reached Light's apartment complex again and L was finishing up some story about his life, something vague about a library. Light didn't know, and he was pretty sure the details kept changing, and was equally sure that L wanted him to point out the contradictions. Was this another game? Light was uncertain, but didn't want to lose if it was.

Still. Might've been a university library. Might've been a secondary school library. Might've been a public library. There might've been someone else there, but the name kept changing. Light sort of liked the story as it was, the way it didn't make sense, the way it wavered in and out of reality much like L seemed to. But he didn't want to lose.

“I thought you said you were with someone named Mello,” Light said at last, and L simply shook his head, though there was something like a smile on his face. Could Light take that to mean he'd played the game correctly? He really didn't know. It was difficult trying to play anything without knowing the rules, after all. But asking would put him steps behind, he was sure of it.

But anyway, they'd reached Light's complex. L didn't really look like he'd noticed, as he went on with his story, something in his demeanour causing him to pull in on himself, to hunch over, eyes glassy as he added something like, “Mihael tried to pull the book off the shelf and they all—”

L paused, smiling at Light; his eyes sparkled with some sort of excited energy, an energy that wasn't present in his low, calm voice, as he waited for Light to catch up. Then he seemed to notice Light looking back at him curiously; Light watched L's eyes dart this way and that. Door-Light-door-away, as if contemplating... something. Light didn't know what.

“Oh. Should I go?” L asked, seemingly having reached a conclusion in his mind, past experience telling him that Light tended to disappear into his apartment building and preferred for L to be gone by now. Normally L had finished speaking before they reached the door. This time, evidently, there was more. He was staring expectantly at Light, as if waiting for a dismissal. Permission to leave.

“Wait,” Light said, unintentionally sharp. Snappish even. His hand darted out before his mind could grasp the significance of that action but he managed to stop himself from grabbing L's wrist, or something equally foolish. Instead, his arm dangled between the two of them like a dead thing. L eyed it with something like scrutiny. Like he was accustomed to scrutinising dead things and Light, slowly, pulled his hand back.

L still looked like he was waiting for a dismissal so Light, in the spirit of the game he was still learning to play, did the opposite. “You can come in if you like,” he said, sounding bolder than he felt. A part of him was still so uncertain, knew he knew so _very_ little about L, didn't even know L's name but the offer had been extended. He couldn't take it back. That would be discourteous.

There was a pause, evidently too wide for L to fill, so Light filled it. “I'd like to hear the end of that story.” He smiled, he was good at putting on a genuine-looking smile. He wondered if L could tell that this time it really _was_ genuine. Light so rarely felt genuine anymore _but_ –

L eyed him as if wary of a trap. Light thought, suddenly, of small predators, clever enough to hunt and too clever to be hunted by things larger than them. Mongooses, maybe. Hawks. Foxes. He wasn't sure. He didn't really think it mattered. Slowly, thinking of predators, he turned his back on L as he keyed in the code for the apartment complex. Presenting his back was a sign of trust, after all. Safety. Something along those lines. Behind him, he didn't hear a sound.

For a second, just one second, one that filled him with sharp-edged clarity, clarity with broken-glass-edges, Light wondered if L was going to attack him. He didn't know why, only that the animal part of his brain, the fight-or-flight part was howling at him to fight or flee. He was going to die.

Of course, he did not die. He nearly felt, not a second later, as if that instinct had never arisen, as if he had never been afraid at all. By the time the complex' door had opened, there was no fear.

“So?” he asked, holding the door open and turning his head so he could see L standing on the building's stoop, all alone. He smiled again. “Are you coming or not? Once I'm inside I won't buzz you up if you change your mind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you know, you can [find me on Tumblr.](http://rayellah.tumblr.com/)


	4. Chapter 4

L made hardly a sound as he walked up the stairs to Light's apartment on the second floor, and Light wondered for one wild moment whether L's feet were even touching the ground. A quick glance down revealed that they were, but L was absurdly quiet, it seemed. The whole walk up was silent, and even though Light's apartment was only on the second floor, it felt like hours before they reached his door.

Some instinctive worry, the source of which Light couldn't easily place, welled up in the pit of his stomach, but it would be too late to retract his offer now. It would be discourteous to send L away and anyway, he didn't want to lose this chance. This stranger ( _stranger_ he reminded himself within the safety of his head) was all he had, in this unfamiliar area surrounded by classmates he tried to keep at arm's length. L had become the one person he saw regularly. He didn't want to lose L, send L back into the night with that story. Light wanted to hear the end.

For the entirety of the walk, he only stole one glance back at L, for the rest of it, he kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, squared his shoulders, shaped himself into... into... into someone better. L did not know anything about him; for all L knew, Light might be someone who let strangers into his apartment all the time.

(He was not that someone.)

His courage lasted until he turned the key in the lock, opened the door, flipped the light switch and – nearly fainted once he felt the weight of repressed emotions bearing down on him. He swayed where he stood; whatever bravery had grasped him appeared to have faded. Light braced himself against the wall just inside and wondered if it was too late to let the shame take him now and get it over with... until he heard L laugh.

Or he thought that odd sound was a laugh, Light glanced over at him with a curious frown settling upon his face. The silence collapsed in on itself like a castle of cards toppling over and Light nearly laughed himself at the rusty, awkward sound that was, apparently, an expression of amusement from L. “You should sit down. Have you eaten?”

Light considered food, considered the contents of his fridge, considered heating up leftovers and said, “I'll have to heat something up.”

Despite the pleasant tone (pleasant, like Light's voice when he was among strangers), he didn't really know how to react, what to do with his hands. L was standing in front of the now-closed door as if uncertain whether he ought to proceed further into the apartment. He removed his shoes and took a tentative step forward. Light noted that he was not wearing socks, but disregarded that information. It was a little odd, but not the strangest thing L did.

“There is enough for two, if you would like,” Light added.

For a second, a split second, there was some aching, hungry, _lonely_ look on L's face, in particular around the eyes, and then L blinked and it was gone and his mask returned. He shrugged. “If you're so eager to give it away I won't turn down a meal. Do you have dessert as well?”

Despite the lightness to his tone, L did not sit down, only stood next to his shoes in the entryway to the apartment and glanced around at everything inside the apartment, much like he always did. Light still thought it looked like he was categorising... well, everything.

Shoes, coats, satchel, table, sofa, chairs, tea kettle, Light, that morning's dishes... It nearly made Light embarrassed, though he didn't think L was judging his living state. Or he hoped not. He knew it was small, but he was a student and so he did not need much...

He was over-thinking it.

After a second's pause, he began heating up supper.

L finally wandered into the kitchen, still analysing analysing analysing every inch of Light's home until at last his eyes settled on Light (who did not even have to look up, could feel those eyes on him, who somehow found the consistency comforting).

“You were saying something earlier,” Light said, not looking up from the stove, “about a library. Someone named Mihael knocked a shelf of books over onto himself, I believe?”

L made a noncommittal, dismissive sound in the back of his throat, settled himself into one of the chairs at the table in Light's kitchenette, raised a thumb to his mouth. “It's not all that interesting,” he said, pulling his legs up onto the chair and resting his arms on his knees. “He dropped the books on himself but he wasn't badly hurt, all bruised up, started crying, 'Help me up, La—”

There was a pause, L's mouth shutting with an audible _snap_ , teeth hitting teeth. He looked so uncertain, uncomfortable, like something that didn't belong, like someone had scribbled over a picture, like the person Light was looking at was not real, was an elaborate act.

“L,” Light began, the word – name – _letter_ – tasting a bit like dirt, or a lie, in his mouth.

“He was upset,” L finished, “but he got past it. No injuries to speak of.” The last word seemed to waver a bit, which was odd. Light had never heard L waver before. The words suddenly felt, to Light, like a lie, just as much a lie as L. Light couldn't shake the feeling that the whole thing sounded like he was reciting something, the way a student might read a school presentation off of a stack index cards. L did not have any cards, of course, but the comparison, Light felt, was apt.

The sound of sizzling on the stove snapped Light from his thoughts, both he and L staring at the stove simultaneously as if they had both forgotten it was there. Light turned toward his supper, scraping the contents of the pan onto two clean plates and producing two pairs of chopsticks.

A question settled on the tip of Light's tongue as he handed one plate to L and sat down across from him at the little table, a question with the word _parents_ in it somewhere but he couldn't manage to ask it so instead, he looked down at his food. So long as he was eating, he would not have to focus on the stranger at his table.

“I'm also going to make tea,” he said, two bites into his meal, and his words came out sharper than intended. “Would you like some?”

(His mother scraped the edge of her words like a knife, safe in the right hands; his father's words were sharper, were something like glass. _Pride. Independence. Intelligence. Not now, Light._ )

L nodded and so Light put on the kettle, readied the tea in two cups, and settled back at his small, cheap, collapsible table to wait for the water to boil.

After two more bites, he looked up; across from him, L appeared to be picking through the food, eating each bite, but doing so methodically, as if there was a certain order. And he was doing this rather quickly, as if he had not eaten in – in – Light did not know. But, like L was starving. Something in Light ached with curiosity, questions. And something in his chest did a sort of lurch, could not imagine eating so messily, greedily, carelessly.

L seemed to feel Light's eyes on him and looked up, looked Light in the eyes almost challengingly. There was an obscene slurping sound as he pulled the chopsticks from his mouth and tapped them once-twice against the plate.

Light glanced away immediately, face heating up and suddenly not feeling terribly hungry. Still, with the way L just went at his meal like a man who had spent the better part of far-too-long wandering in a desert (oh, no, that was an odd comparison), Light did not wish to waste food, and so finished his supper at his own steady pace.

There was an awkward pause as Light stared at his own empty plate, and then at L's. The kettle declared that the water had begun to boil and Light immediately stood up to prepare two cups of tea. It occurred to him, as he set his own cup on the table, that he did not know how L took his tea (coffee was: no milk, an unknown quantity of sugar). He set L's cup down as well, placed the sugar next to it. He could have at it as he liked.

“Thank you,” L said, accepting the cup and adding sugar. The words seemed to fumble in his mouth as if he didn't know what to do with them, as if unused to _thanking_. “For the tea, for supper, and for having me over.”

He paused, looking, for a moment, vaguely annoyed with himself.

“I don't have a family,” he added, each word coming out with less inflection than the last until he was speaking in a flat monotone. “There's no one to give me their leftovers.” Light didn't know if the words were supposed to sound that awkward, but they did not sound false. Or no more false than L's words usually did. L smiled, and that smile was a little sharp, a little dangerous. “I'm glad that I could save your life that night.”

“Me, too,” Light said before he could catch himself, cursed himself for saying it, reminded himself that L had, let's not forget, injured a man. “I'm grateful. I was worried I might have died there that night.”

“It's good, then, that I was there.”

“What—” Light began, slow and hesitant, “What were you doing there?”

L blinked, as if confused by that line of questioning. “I was simply passing through. I saw the knife in that man's hand and was worried he'd kill you. You looked like – you _are_ – a student. I had assumed that no matter what you had done to get a man at least fifteen years older to hold a knife to your throat, you didn't deserve to die. It was unsurprising, to find that he was simply attempting to take your wallet.”

L reached across the table, encircled Light's wrist with his hand and holding that wrist in a vice grip. His hand felt warm against Light's skin.

“I don't remember telling you that,” Light said, frowning.

“You didn't. I asked him once he regained consciousness, later that night.”

“Why would—” Light began, but L shook his head.

“You can ask, but I won't answer that question.”

L let go of Light's wrist and stood up, clearing away the dishes before Light could stop him, and Light considered, momentarily, the loss of L's hand on his wrist. (It had been a long time since he had had even that much physical contact, not that it mattered, not that that was relevant information.)

L deposited the dishes in the sink and grabbed the dish detergent. For a moment he looked lost, as if unsure of what to do next. At last he squeezed some of the soap onto the plates.

“It helps if you fill the sink first,” Light put in, helpfully. L turned and smiled at Light, and Light, who thought he'd be unable to smile back... was proven wrong.

They cleaned the dishes and once that was done, L drifted toward the door. For some absurd reason, Light wanted to tell him to stay, like now that L had grabbed his hand across a cheap table and they did dishes, they can pretend that they have anything in common.

Instead he simply said, “Be careful,” as L pulled on his shoes. L turned to look at him with a curious frown settling itself onto his face, as if he could not fathom anyone ever saying that to him. Light felt the sudden need to justify himself which, to be fair, was a feeling he got rather frequently when L was concerned. He couldn't pin down why.

“There's a serial killer running about,” Light added, stern. “It's been all over the news channels, so you probably know, and I know you can handle wallet thieves but – be careful, L.”

L looked at him for a second, as if considering something.

“I'll be fine, Light-kun,” he said, shaking his head. “I promise.”

And with that, he was gone. Out the door, and Light could only watch him go and hope that he'd see L again later. And all away.

It took him nearly fifteen minutes for L's words to register. _I never told him my name._

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's left such lovely comments! You make my cold, cold heart warm over.

Light did not see L at all the next day, couldn't help but consider this a _loss_ of something, wondered, cautiously, in the back of his mind, if something might have happened to him. Like when the stray cat that kept coming round for scraps, back when Light still lived with his parents, suddenly vanished, except L was not a cat at all, L was Light's... friend? Something like that, and when Light left work in the evening and walked all the way home and did not see L at all, the whole walk back, he realised he had no way of knowing where to find him.

He didn't know how to get L to stay, either.

Which was ridiculous, he thought, it had only been a day. But a single day can seem to stretch on indefinitely if one spends it wondering. And just the night before, L had hummed while helping Light wash dishes, stood right next to Light, close enough that their elbows bumped on occasion. Close enough to Light that he could rest his head, for just a few seconds, on Light's shoulder. And then he left, swallowed up by the night once more. And all away.

Light was not one to worry, not much, not really, but he _was_ somewhat uncertain (a side-effect of his uncertainty about the direction his life was taking, perhaps, but that possibility wouldn't occur to him until later), kept worry bottled up tight in his chest next to his heart, anxiousness. Let it whisper: L is dead, whisper: L is gone forever, dead. Light almost hoped that L had simply left him alone, because the alternative was considering that L is _dead_ and that was worse. _The world is dangerous, it eats people alive. Did you not want another reminder of that, Yagami Light? Free of charge?_

 _He left_ , Light told himself all the way home, hoping the repetition of it will cement it into reality, hoping placing it into reality would make it hurt less. _He left, because he realised he doesn't actually want to be your friend, and he's not coming back_.

Each step up to his apartment felt heavy, like his feet couldn't recall what it was to walk. Once inside, he let out a sigh. Stupid. Sentimental. Childish, even. He paced his living room like a trapped thing. Like something abandoned, a toy packed into a box, no longer touched, until L came along and reminded Light of what Light _was_... and then left. Leaning against the table in his kitchen, Light began to laugh, as he realised how empty his apartment was in the first place, realised that he had something to lose and now he'd lost it and perhaps it was an overreaction but L was, he felt, what his life was missing. A puzzle, a challenge, a friend, and now he was gone—

And then there was a knock at the door.

Actually, not a knock. More like a dull thud. Light would count it, though, didn't even pause as he opened the door blindly.

Later he would remember that his first thoughts upon opening the door were the cooking knives he kept in the kitchen, the serial killer on the news stations, all the places he could _punch_ to knock a man aside...

For the moment, though, he didn't realise that he was thinking about that, wasn't _actively_ thinking about anything, just _hoping_.

On the other side of the door was – L, and in L's hands were two plastic bags. Light didn't even have the chance to register this fact as L let himself into the apartment as if he belonged there.

“I brought food,” he said, setting the bags down on Light's kitchen counter. Light recalled stray cats again, thought about dead things, gifts, pride in a kill, the way that ratty little stray used to leave dead birds on his family's front stoop and his mother made him dispose of them. Slowly, he stepped away from the door, fingers curling around the handle. There was a relief in seeing L in Light's apartment, alive and unharmed; Light let out a shaky breath, just a little bit, and he was relieved. It had only been a day, but he was relieved.

The one absence of L was a tug at the backdrop, revealing the unreality of the play that was Light's life. This was all so fragile. It was all Light had, and it was like glass. But L was there, alive, and brought groceries. Before he could stop himself, Light had closed the door and followed L across the apartment. When L turned around, Light reached out and took L's wrist in his hand, the same way L had done, the last time L was in Light's apartment.

L stiffened in surprise but then smiled a little, and they stood like that for a moment, connected by that barely-there contact, in the middle of Light's apartment. _I'm glad you're here,_ Light thought, but could not bring himself to say. _You don't have to go_. L made a contemplative humming sound and for a split second, Light thought it was in response to his thoughts, as if L had read his mind, but no, he'd just stepped forward to lean his head against Light's shoulder and was seemingly content to stay there.

His messy hair brushed against Light's cheek.

“I was afraid,” Light confessed at last, into that unbrushed hair. It felt like his secrets could hide in there, if they wanted. Like his words weren't going anywhere, like L would catch them for him. “I thought, at first, that you weren't coming back.” (His voice cracked on the last word. There was so much truth there. Maybe too much. Light was not, by nature, honest. Nor was he dishonest, particularly, just... secretive. His lies were the omitted sort but...)

“I'm not planning on going anywhere,” L murmured, low voice buzzing against Light's neck. “You're my friend, Light-kun.”

They stayed like that long enough for Light's breathing to settle, Light letting out a sigh as at last L pulled back.

“Food,” L said.

Light nodded. “Food.”

L, it seemed, had purchased several desserts and only two takeout containers worth of actual food, which was fine, because they ended up on Light's sofa and L's knee jabbed into Light's leg as he told another story – this one about an unremarkable visit to a department store getting out of hand. But in that story, L is alone, which Light finds somewhat sad. L kept pausing in his story to lick icing off his fingers, which Light keeps cringing at, looking away.

Light would continue contemplating L's contradictory story were it not for the sudden weight of L's head in his lap. He'd looked away again as L finished off his slice of cake and L had taken advantage of his distractedness. Just yesterday they'd barely touched at all.

He looked at home there, in Light's lap, on Light's couch, in Light's apartment. In Light's life, L looked at home. Slowly, Light reached out and twined L's messy hair around his finger. L didn't seem to react, only finished up his story before glancing up at Light's face.

“I've never asked, Light-kun, but what is it you're studying?”

Light didn't answer at first, simply glanced at L, then stared straight ahead at the wall. For three heartbeats he paused, contemplative.

“I'm planning to become a criminal investigator,” he said at last. His father's occupation lingers on the tip of his tongue, same old justifications, same old following-in-dad's-footsteps. Instead he simply said, “My father is a policeman.”

Vague. Nondescript.

L nodded. “I see. Do you look up to your father, then?”

Light did not know how to answer that, so he simply lifted one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. _Yes_ and _no_ both seemed inaccurate. _Maybe_ sounded like avoidance. _Somewhat_ was a cop out.

“I've helped out the police before, on a few cases,” Light added, which seemed to get L's interest. Like questions were stuck in L's mouth but he couldn't figure out what to do with them.

Light just wanted to get away from that particular topic, so he flipped on the television. The news was on, some story about a local celebrity coming to an end, and the next story featured another person found dead. Throat slit, body found earlier that same evening in an alleyway, no clues found at the scene.

Light felt his left hand clench and unclench, an uncertainty there as he recognised the victim as the man who had tried to rob him a few weeks back. He'd only caught a glimpse of his face but Light had a good memory for faces.

“Are you all right?” L asked, very little inflection in his low voice, as always, but Light could detect something like concern there.

“That man...”

L sat up then, as if to get a better look at the television screen. The victim's portrait had vanished as a reporter talked a policeman through describing the circumstances of death. Light reconsigned the man on camera as one of the men who worked with his father. Matsuda. Not that that was relevant.

“Well, he's dead now,” L commented.

“There's still a serial killer out there,” Light reminded him.

L murmured, “I'll protect you.” His low voice drifting under the woman on the television, who was discussing the police's inability to track down the one who'd killed that man. _You must be very brave,_ Light thought, _To claim you would put yourself between me and a killer_ _to protect me_ _. Not that I expect to meet this killer, of course, but it was you I was worried about and you still said you would protect me._

Light was not sure he would protect L, were their situations reversed. He was not sure he _could_.

The news shifted topics, this time a bank teller who had been caught stealing from a large bank. Light's eyes drifted closed... opened, then drifted closed, opened closed, closed—

When he woke, his neck was sore and he was sitting up. He was alone on the couch, and the television was turned off. Sunlight streamed through the window, filtering between the blinds. He sat up, groaned at the pain in his neck. For a moment, he wondered if L had left, but when he got up and turned around, he could see L sitting at the kitchen table, adding sugar to a cup of instant coffee. He said something that might have been a 'hello' but Light did not catch it. Light was tired. He watched with sleep-blurred eyes L took a long sip from his cup.

“Hello,” L said again. “I made coffee.”

Light finally found the energy to drag himself to the kitchen, and L set another cup across from him at the table. “I didn't know how you take it, so I left it black.”

“Black is fine,” Light said as he shuffled over to the table. Took the other chair. Took the cup of coffee. He hadn't put anything into his coffee for—

—years.

“It's Sunday so I can't imagine you have class, but do you work today?” L asked, sounding unconcerned, distracted with adding a seemingly-specific amount of sugar to his cup. Light ran through the schedule in his mind and considered.

“Yes,” he said at last, pause having stretched on too long. His coffee was pre-made crap. Perhaps that was why L was dropping all those sugar cubes into it. It tasted like lying. “Do you?”

L shrugged, stirring his coffee before at last taking a sip. “No,” he said. “I'm not presently employed. But more money will come, it always does.” He left the subject there, with that cryptic comment that Light did not seem to know how to deconstruct. Light set his cup down after two sips and wandered to the kitchen counter, started opening cupboards and drawers.

Most were empty. This apartment was never meant to be a permanent residence, after all, he'd find something else once he was formally employed. There was the occasional slurping sound behind him as L sipped at his tea, providing some sort of background noise to the opening and closing of drawers and cupboards. At last he found what he was looking for, picked up the object inside the last drawer in the kitchen, and placed it on the table in front of L, who glanced at him with a curious look on his face.

“It's a key,” Light said, staring at it to avoid looking L in the eyes.

“I know what a key is, Light-kun. Why are you giving it to me?”

“So you don't have to knock next time,” Light said, those final words trailing off, swallowed up by the silence in the kitchen. L's long fingers curled around the key and he slipped it into his pocket as quickly as he could, as if Light would change his mind and take it back if he didn't get it out of sight quickly enough. Not that Light would. This was a genuine offer. He didn't blame L for looking like he was about to bolt, however, not when Light still felt like a prey animal in L's presence.

“Thank you,” L said at last, and there was that unfamiliarity in L's voice, as if he didn't know how to use those words. Light at last met L's eyes, saw some emotion he couldn't identify hidden there.

“I'll be at work. But you don't have to go,” Light said in reply, smiling hesitantly, “if you don't want to.”

It felt like victory when L smiled back.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... i took a bit of a break from this, didn't i? whoops. but i'm back now!

It became routine too easily – finding L sitting at his table when Light wakes up, or waiting by Light's school with takeout and desserts, or Light arriving home to find him already there, watching the news with rapt attention, a finger raised to his lips as if in contemplation. Of what? Light had no idea. Light's life had in it a perfectly-sized empty space for L to settle in, like an early-blooming tree waiting for fruit to define it. Over supper, they'd talk about themselves, both speaking in low, quiet voices as they passed details back and forth. Like facts about themselves were supposed to be secrets. And maybe they were.

L was raised in an orphanage in England, the closest person L had to family would be disappointed in him, L came to Japan simply because it was far away, L was running away from something. Pause. Then he decided to stay here. L said, _I could be doing something else, but I'm not_. Light, not knowing what L _does_ do, simply nodded. Because there are things he could be doing, too. It felt a bit like he was stagnating, like he wasn't doing anything at all. Would his father still be proud of him if he knew that? Did it matter?

Oh well.

That wasn't the point, after all, the point was this: It was too easy, letting this become routine. Black hairs had found their way into Light's comb, tangled up with his own chestnut strands and Light had come to know the sound of L's heart pound-pounding away in his chest. Light passed his exams. The news stopped talking about back-alley murders, victims unlikely to be mourned, and started discussing an inventor's heart attack, a man who had used his wealth to build orphanages around the world, which Light found very philanthropic but otherwise unremarkable; he watched the news with the weight of L's head in his lap, slowly putting his legs to sleep. Both feet twitched, trying to increase the blood flow to them but he didn't want to move too quickly or all at once, lest he disturb L... who had twitched, just a little. Involuntarily. A jerking movement like a restless dog. Light tangled his fingers in L's hair almost without thinking, making L shudder and still.

“He didn't deserve it,” L said, voice barely above a whisper and without the slightest bit of inflection, all cold monotone. The inventor's picture appeared on the screen then, and Light noted that the man had had a kind face. L kept speaking with something akin to wine-sour certainty, “he was a good man, Light.”

In the back of Light's mind there was something like a room. In this room was something that could have been his father, beneath layers of pride and disappointment in equal parts, the juxtaposition making it difficult to focus on. _He didn't deserve it, he was a good man_. Light knew nothing about this inventor, likely hadn't even heard the name _Quillish Wammy_ before, and, as if to emphasise the lack of impact his death will have outside of those orphanages he funded, a new story becomes the focus for the reporter onscreen, a traffic accident, three injuries, no deaths, Light wondered if the inventor had a family, a wife or children who would miss him—

“That's too bad,” Light said, voice dismissive. Not _uncaring_ , or not deliberately. Neutral, then. Just... neutral.

L inhaled, sharp, but said nothing more.

Still, though, L's hand found its way to Light's wrist, taking hold of it like a shackle, all long fingers. But he couldn't seem to keep still, kept twitching, restless, eyes locked mesmerised on the television even after the news ends. Light falls asleep with L still gripping tight to his wrist.

In the morning, L was gone. Something in Light was anxious.

L was, in fact, _gone_ for three days.

Light's mind drifted, again, to back-alley murders and toxicity reports and all the things he is learning the fine details of as he works toward becoming a detective proper. L still had his key, had not returned that on purpose, and that, at least was significant. If one were to _ask_ Light if he was worried (not that there was anyone who might ask him that, no one else knew about L, but _if_ ) Light would say no. This would not be a lie. He was not _worried_ , but he did wonder what had caused the lack of L. He continued to watch the news. Man dead from heart attack on the metro. Man hit by bus. High-profile businessman jumped from a building. It wasn't as though Light _expected_ to see a photo of L declaring him the latest victim of a serial killer, but he couldn't shake the possibility from his mind. Man dead. A phone ringing – where? L had no family, he told Light over and over that he was an orphan. No one would call _Light,_ certainly, nobody would know to. Not that it would happen.

And after day one, which was Sunday, day two, _Monday_ meant a return to Light's routine and so, well, Light resumed his routine. School. Work. Homework. Rinse-and-repeat. Day three went much the same way. Light went to work. He still had not seen L.

“ _Did you hear someone else was killed?”_ hissed one of Light's coworkers, whispered it like a secret. Light raised an eyebrow, feigning polite interest.

“Did they say where? Or who?” His voice wavered. Uncertainty in his tone, he had no idea why he thought L would, _could_ , be a victim like that, L had always seemed predatory, like a hunter of – of – of _something_. Light wasn't sure what. But not at all like a prey animal.

His coworker clicked her tongue, the noise reminding Light of a gun being cocked, and Light returned to himself, thoughts of sharp lupines and claws disappearing. “Some white-collar criminal, I think. Embezzler? I don't know. He's not coming here, though, so don't worry about it,” his coworker said and Light just nodded.

“Probably deserved it,” Light murmured fast, under his breath, not nearly loud enough to be heard and when his coworker gave him a confused look, Light shook his head, smiled, and said, “Thank you.”

“Be careful out there,” she replied, noting the time on the clock and apparently recalling Light's hours better than he could remember hers, as it was indeed almost time for him to leave. In response, Light's smile widened as he gave her a nod, making his way toward the door. Not L, then. L was fine. He knew he would be, really.

Light went home, fell asleep on the sofa, ignoring the flickering of the television, the low murmur of news reporters and advertisements. All night he dozed, alert for any sound. The opening of a door, the light tapping of bare feet on his floor, sounds that never came.

On the fourth day, L returned.

But first, Light awoke. The morning news reporter was speaking carefully and clearly, discussing patterns and witnesses and though she used a lot of words, it was clear she knew nothing about that morning's topic, Light, who was not yet a detective, knew _more_ than her. Not about whatever killer she was discussing this time, but about patterns and witnesses.

Anyway, though, Light slid off the sofa and rummaged through his kitchen, settling on making tea rather than actual breakfast. What do you do, when someone who has wormed their way into your life suddenly vanishes? What do you do, but wait for them to come back? What do you—

What—

What do you—

 _Oh._ Light froze, staring at the screen. It had cut away from the newscaster, who had previously discussing the merits of some point, saying _good point_ and _knows the killer_ over and over _killer killer killer_ and Light kept thinking _go back, go back to what you just showed us, I don't care about the merits of what you're discussing, go back_ _—_

They did go back. To a police sketch of L.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> things get serious, light reacts. light lies a lot.

On the television, the police sketch vanished once again, to be replaced by an interview with a young man. A teenager, really. Light could not discern his exact age, but could tell he was younger than him.

His name was _Mihael Keehl_ according to the caption. His name was _Mihael Keehl_ and he was a _witness_. He was blatantly foreign but his Japanese was passable, no translation needed as he spoke clearly, as if trying to ensure he would be understood. He spoke with less of an accent than L, but he also seemed to know fewer individual words. All of this registered distantly, of course, as if Light were trying to think _through_ something. Like his thoughts were being blocked by something tearable yet tangible, like a sheet of paper he should be able to get through.

L had mentioned a Mihael amid one of his stories, Light thought, or at least the name sounded familiar once he'd sounded it out. Still, L had said he didn't have any family. Over and over, he had said _I have no one_ said _there has never been anyone_ said—

Said something about an orphanage once. Said that, once, he had someone who was _like family_. Said he was running from something. And now he was gone, and onscreen Mihael-Keehl-witness-to-the-crimes was staring into the camera with some harsh-hot emotion lurking right behind his controlled expression. Eyes tired and maybe angry, too, saying, “He started killing in the United Kingdom, thinking he was—” and here _Mihael_ paused, eyes closing momentarily as he exhaled through his nose. “He believed he was doing the right thing. He has a strong sense of justice.” His voice was rough, and Light hated him irrationally. This Mihael was probably  _right_ , wasn't he? L was... evidently a killer, wasn't he? Why would he be so angry about the fact that Mihael is looking at the camera with accusations in his mouth and exhaustion in his eyes, like the weight of the world was on his shoulders, saying words like _mentor_ and _psychopath_ in the same breath.

Light couldn't quite work through his rage, but he was angry because L had a family of sorts. This whole time, sleeping on Light's sofa, making Light feel significant – this whole time, he had people. And if Light pretended  _that's_ what he was mad about, he could avoid thinking about the footage, the bodies, the list of victims' names. Light watched Mihael say _killer_ over and over and over, felt shock hit him again like a punch to the chest. L was a killer, and he had something almost like a family, and Light wanted to pretend the latter is the great betrayal, but of course it wasn't.

He should have known.

Perhaps, on a level, he did know, could have put two and two together sooner. He had certainly sensed the danger that L emanated, could surely have figured out the rest but it was one thing to aim to bring strangers to justice, and another entirely to look at someone who had become a friend and consider how to bring them down. Though Light had not seen L for three days, oh, his mind was working on just that. He couldn't stop thinking, low and angry in the back of his mind, _killer killer killer_.

Onscreen, Mihael had started another sentence but before he could reach its end, the screen cutaway because: breaking news. Breaking news, someone else had died. The picture showed a man around Light's father's age, smiling out from a photograph, looking happy. Breaking news. Breaking.

Light's breath shuddered out of him and he reached for his phone.

\--

Mihael Keehl had ordered a cup of tea and was staring at it as if the glass had information he wanted and he was going to beat it until it confessed. Light, who had information Mihael probably wanted, felt distinctly anxious. But he was the one who wanted to meet, and he was the one who had selected the location, and so he sucked in a breath, lowered his head, and approached the table.

Next to Mihael sat another teenager, all pale skin and light clothing, looking younger than Mihael. Light slid into a seat across from them both.

“Hello,” he said, looking Mihael in the eyes.

“Hey, Yagami, yeah?” Mihael replied, in English. His voice sounded softer than it did on television, and Light noticed that his clothing all looked well-worn, made faded and full of holes by use. He switched to Japanese, immediately after. Almost like an afterthought. “Yagami. The guy who called over the phone, about my – about our – _shit_.”

It was comforting to see that Mihael looked and sounded just as uncomfortable as Light felt. The boy at Mihael's left did not look uncomfortable. Light wanted to ask about him but kept his mouth shut for the time being.

“About the news, yes,” he said instead, looking at Mihael's face almost searchingly, for any sort of response. Any sort of confirmation. Light's hands were folded neatly on the table. Mihael was ripping up sugar packets, tearing the wrappers into methodical pieces. Sugar and artificial sweeteners scattering across the table.

“He used to keep them in his pockets,” Mihael murmured. “When we went out and something wasn't sweet enough he'd take them out and dump sugar over it. It was part of his image. He was good at that, crafting an image. Making himself into a specific person with weird quirks so people would remember how _off_ he was and not anything else that he did.”

That sounded like him. Light glanced back up from the table, looked Mihael right in the eyes.

“What was he running from?” Light asked, sounding more angry than he wanted to but not as angry as he felt. “Law aside, he was running from something.”

(He didn't know what he expected to hear.)

Mihael shook his head back and forth and back and forth. He took a sip of tea, made a face – Light almost laughed at the expression, hysteria bubbling up inside him as he remembered the face L had made when Light had tried to feed him supper fresh out of the pan, still sizzling – reached for the sugar packets, watched his own hand falter before they got there. Mihael paused, wrapped both hands around the teacup instead.

“He killed Nate's foster father,” Mihael said quietly, nodding toward the white-haired boy, and Light went completely still. Mihael looked at the other boy for confirmation, received a small nod in return. “He was – look, the man who raised him raised the two of us as well, and some other orphans. It's complicated and I'm not getting into it, the point is that a relative tracked Nate down and after paperwork and background checks, Nate was gone. Later, Nate comes back to see us, and he there's a bruise on his cheek, and... you probably know him as _L_ right? I'll just keep calling him that. _L_ would look at Nate, like all he had to do was say 'go' and he'd bring the world to justice, make it answer for its crimes.”

There was a pause, Mihael letting out a sharp exhale through his nose. “Does he look at you like that, now?” he asked, voice tilting up at the end just enough to make it sound like a question before muttering, “Never mind. It doesn't matter.”

Another pause, another exhale, the sound reminding Light of broken glass.

“Point is, Nate was visiting, our... _guardian_ was out. Nate's foster dad comes banging on the door, big and mean. This was three years ago, all right?”

Light nodded, picturing it. L with dead eyes, this man like a great shadow, this man like injustice. Mihael maybe not quite so tired, trying to help but not _that_ much bigger than Nate. Smaller than he is now, probably. Nate smaller, too, probably, not wanting to get hit.

“The bastard shoves his way in, yelling about Nate doing or not doing something, I don't remember what, and then he lunges at him, and I was stunned. I didn't know _what_ to do.” Mihael was barely talking to Light anymore, staring at his own hands like they were fascinating. Across the table, the pile of ripped sugar packets was growing as Nate seemed to pick up where Mihael left off, tearing them to pieces. “Then there was a crack, and he let go. Another crack, and then a third. The bastard dropped like a bag of rocks and... _L_ was looking at Nate like – like—”

The three of them sat there in silence.

“I don't know where he is now,” Light said, because that was the closest he could come to a confession. Or maybe the closest to saying: I'm sorry that your family left you, I didn't mean to take him.

“Yagami,” Mihael said, faint. “You probably care about him, right? He always did have a funny effect on people.”

Light didn't respond. Silent. Thought about the way L brought him food, the way L had fit perfeclty into his arms.

“He probably cares about you. He does that. Cares about people until he can't understand why they'd ever care about anyone else. Then he gets self-isolating.”

“I don't have many other people to care about,” Light murmured. “My family... I'm distant with them at best. Except for my sister but _here_ , L is all I have.” And he said too much and his hands shook. He never asked for any of this.

“People are dead,” Nate said, sounding at once exhausted and patient.

“I know,” Light said. And he did. Still, something in his voice sounded petulant, childish, as if he wasn't speaking to two children currently. “People are dead.” And that was the problem, wasn't it?

“So you have to tell us where he is so—”

“I don't _have_ to do anything,” Light said, thinking about watching the news with L. “I'm not you, and I'm not going to fix your mistakes.”

He stood up, chair screeching in protest. “I'm sorry,” Light said. “For him, for you two, for me.” He paused, watched Mihael's fingers clench and unclench on the tabletop, and pulled himself together. “I'm sorry I couldn't be more help, Mr. Keehl. Nate. But I don't know the man you're describing, and I don't know where he is.”

The second part is, at least, not a lie. Light turned on his heel and departed, did not look back, but could not forget the look on Mihael's face, and the way Nate stared at the floor. Two boys, alone but for their torn-up sugar packets and torn-up hearts.

\--

Light walked home with a lot on his mind, mentally debating this way and that. His mind screaming _L has killed people, L has killed people, you have to turn him in because he's killed people, no matter how lonely you are he's killed people and he could kill you too_. His mind was flashing images, L with a knife, L holding Light's wrist, L with that hollow look in his eyes as he had knocked a man unconscious with a bit of piping, the way L had walked him all the way home. He could, perhaps, wait for L to return, then alert the police but, no, L deserved more than that. Light would bring him to justice _himself_.

The only certainty Light has was in knowing L was not dead, seeing the bodies on the news confirmed that much. L had been up to... _something_ , certainly. Light wanted to punch something, wanted to throw up. L had killed so many people, there was so much blood on L's hands.

When Light reached his apartment, he was utterly unsurprised to see L there in the doorway, looking at Light like Light was a sunrise. Despite himself, Light remembered the second time he met L, the way L had stood there waiting for Light to notice him.

Well. Light noticed him now.

“Light,” L breathed, eyes widening. “You're all right. I was worried when I got here and you were out.”

“I'm fine,” Light said, pushing past L into the apartment.

L seemed to consider saying something, but kept his mouth shut. “I brought dinner. I'm sorry that I was out for so long.”

He smiled, like this was explanation enough. Light recalled the way Mihael had said _an image_ , that L crafted _images_ for himself. The way Light could interpret that as _costumes_. Light smiled back, light and innocent and L had killed a man. L had killed people. L was smiling at Light and Light was smiling back. “It's okay,” he said, like a liar. Like the liar that he was. His smile widened and he turned his back on L, walked over to the sofa, sat down. He had to do _something_. What would his father do? Did it matter? The words _I know what you are_ stick in his throat, moments and moments ticking by. He said nothing, swallowed his words down, turned to look at the serial killer still in his doorway, and smiled again.

“You haven't come in yet.”

“... No. I haven't. Light, do you know how to drive?”

 


	8. Chapter 8

They'd been driving for six days, Tokyo behind them. The ever-present bags beneath L's eyes seemed only to deepen and he smells like the wind Light is sure must be tangled in his hair. They weren't _going_ anywhere, L directing him this way and that, south through one town and then back north again. Light pretended not to notice that they were going in circles.

They slept in the car (whose car, Light had no idea; the license plates would likely tell a different story than L would, so Light neither asked nor made inquiries), L sent Light into stores at random to purchase food and necessities with fistfuls of crumpled bills, and at night, Light awoke, unused to the discomfort of sleeping on fake leather, to see L watching the motion of stars overhead.

(Light had never been afraid in cars, had learned to drive though he had never owned a vehicle of his own, but L. L seemed to flinch away from the sound of the engine and the speed of them and the thought of something happening to L before Light could figure out exactly what was _going on_ sent his stomach flip-flopping, over and over and over, until he could barely even eat.

As Light drove, L would occasionally look over at him from the passenger seat, hair messy and sticking up at all angles like it was trying to escape. He had never looked more almost-honest than he did then. Light did not know how he felt about that.)

Light was already risking quite a bit with this, he thought, going _on the run_ with a serial killer, with a serial killer, with a serial killer. But: enemies closer. But: the best place to watch someone is by their side. But: if he let L slip away, he might never see him again, and then what would happen?

So it is, in a way, almost too much. The feeling of L's head on his shoulder at night, L's fingers encircling his wrist like a cuff. When Light drove, he could feel three heartbeats: his own, the car's, and L's. L L _L_.

So: the days were easy. The days were fine, just scenery flying by as Light drove back and forth and back, circling they city they fled. Neither of them said much, all but silent, the only sounds between them the car's engine, humming: a challenge to the silence, a heart beating.

The days were all near-silence but for the beat-beat-beat of heart-heart-hearts. L didn't say anything. Light didn't either. He wasn't sure he could, not sure the sensation of L _there_ , of L _a killer_ and _there_ next to him could ever be small enough to give him room to speak, not ever. Not everever. Light was lucky he hadn't said _I know what you are_ yet. He could feel it pushing against his throat sometimes, but he swallowed it down, kept driving, silent.

Night was when it got harder. Light could not drive indefinitely, had to stop to sleep. Still, he did not speak much, at night he stopped the car, curled up in the driver's seat like he was hiding a stab wound. L didn't seem to need much sleep, and Light noticed that at times L watched him. He asked why on day two, and L had said he was making sure Light was still breathing. Light had simply nodded, pretended to feel detached. Pretended he had any idea how to feel. He wished L would tell him what was going on.

It had been six days. Six days since L had said to Light _do you know how to drive_ said _I have to go_ said _can you drive me just a little ways, I have a car but I never learnt to drive it._ Six days since Light had said _fine_ and since Light had **not** said _tell me where you're going, when you'll be back_. Six days since L had got it, anyway.

“It won't be long. I'll direct you, it won't be long,” L had said at one point, something lingering on the edge of his normally-flat voice, something like the shadow of what in another man's voice Light might consider fear. “I don't even know how to _drive_.”

Light considered telling L that he could teach him – and he wanted to, oh, wanted to give that freedom to L but then, that would just make L harder to capture, to bring to _justice_ (that was the word Mihael had used to describe L's way of thinking, bringing the world to _justice_ ) – but he could, of course, tell that this particular gap in his knowledge was not what had L's voice shaking like the up-and-down motion of a boat on water.

He considered rubbing L's back, between the shoulder blades, whispering something reassuring but the problem was that Light's reassurances were carefully pre-crafted for situations he was more accustomed to dealing with, and this was new, and he didn't know what to _do_ with new. He hovered, torn between action and its lack, until L turned away to look out the window.

He didn't talk about it.

Six days.

Six days of not talking about it.

Light had no idea what _it is_ , only that whatever they were circling around back in Tokyo, tracing an arc around, might as well burn their path into the road, big and wide and hungry. Hungrier, even, than L seemed to be. Light pressed on the gas whenever the speed limit allowed, driving as fast as possible, even though he knew that L knew that he knew they weren't really going anywhere.

(This was it. An opportunity to bring L to justice would arise.

This was it. This was what he wanted. This was it. This was what he wanted.)

Light's phone buzzed on the sixth night, as Light was trying to fall asleep, watching L through the window, staring up and up at the sky. He stared at the phone in numb confusion when it lit up, smug in its insistence that it had something worth listening to. He frowned. Not that many people had his number. It could be work, his university, someone calling to ask where he was.

He tightened his grip around the phone, unwilling to look at the display, unwilling to see who would be calling him. Soon enough, the phone stopped ringing. The screen went back. Light turned it over and over in his hands.

 _Buzz_. The phone flickered to life once again, screen alight. One new voicemail. Light turned to glance at L, whose eyes were on the horizon, before hitting play in the message.

_Light? It's Sayu. I know you're really focused on school right now but [exhale] this is more important. We need you to come home. We being, um, mom and me, that's [an uncomfortable laugh] kind of the problem. I – okay. Dad's dead. He's been dead for a few days actually and mom and I were trying to decide how to tell you and we – we really need you, Light. Please call back._

The phone beeped in Light's hand, letting him know the message had completed. An automated voice began asking if he wanted to save or delete it, but Light was too numb to respond. His phone fell from numb hands and he stared at it like an animal that might snap at his fingers.

As it hit the ground, a crack ran through the screen. But that was fine. A screen could be fixed.

 


End file.
